Survival of the Fittest

Some call it poetic justice— 
How fitting it is indeed that 

The most vocal of creatures remain 
Dumbstruck by the babbling of beasts. 

Testimony: Raymond's Early Years

The logging town’s main drag was once 
Planks supported on stilts above the mud- 
Flats where amongst the taverns and cat- 
Houses, drunks could be seen falling 
Through rotting boards or over the railings, 
While the upright citizenry kept voting 
In sheriffs who stood for whores galore 
And the inalienable rights of winos delirious
To bite off the heads of snakes at a nickel
A score offered by thrill-seeking urchins 
Who kept thirsting for more. 

Tell Us Your Life Story in about Fifteen Words

Bankruptcy— 

Whenever the sun came out, 
They’d tell me to save it 

For a rainy day. 

The Pursuit of Happiness

Precious 

Silver lines each separate cloud— 
All the same, everybody wants 

To be over the moon. 

Evensongs

The loudspeakers keep 
The message of the liturgy 
Resounding throughout 
The village and even if 
They should want, it is hard 
For those outside the church 
To ignore. Such urgency! 

But there’s more— 

If the wind should blow
Just right towards where 
You’re going about your work, 
With no effort at all you can 
Still hear the crystal-clear voice 
Of a lone shepherdess calling 
Her wayward flock home. 

Spiritual Cripple's Warped American Dream

Sometimes I dream I never left 
My poor miserable homeland, 
That I never went to the new world 
Where dollars were said to be 
Plentiful as leaves falling 
From trees and all you had 
To do was keep stooped over so 
You could pick them up with ease, 
And where now I dream 
I wake up rich and not deformed 
Beyond my wildest dreams. 

Color Blindness of Homeric Proportions

Talking their heads off on the beach 
Till they’re blue in the face, they do not see 

How the wine-dark sea is laughing at them. 


NB: http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/hoffman_01_13/

To My Precocious Granddaughter, All of Twenty Months

The only soul who speaks English to you, I wonder 
How much of it will stick in your little head— 

Precious, I hope it doesn’t end up Greek once 
You happen to read my poems after I’m dead. 

Rubberstamped

Come to think of it, 
I like my poems so much 
I don’t even have to read them. 

Brave New World, 1948

Maiden voyage making my way 
To the new world, so naïve 
At four I didn’t know what 
To make of an ice cream when 
It was handed to me on deck 
By the first black man I’d ever seen. 

Standing frozen there next to mom, 
I held on to it and her and watched 
It melting as I mustered the courage 
To move to the railing and throw it away— 
I still don’t know what flavor it was 
I was casting away. 

Poetries in Motion

From a distance I can see 

(The two brothers close 
To one another, the older 
One striding briskly, the younger 
Backwards, trying hard 
To keep pace, both 
Mouths animated, moving in 
What may or may not be) 

Unison.